


Assassins of Kings

by Isis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Extra Treat, Gen, Ghosts, Revenge, The Witcher 2 Spoilers, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16357409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: Geralt has broken the curse on the battlefield, but Sabrina Glevissig needs his help with one more thing.





	Assassins of Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



> "Give my witchbaby her revenge, is what I'm saying." Okay, then! You owe me a murder or two. :-)
> 
> This is set (and diverges from canon) immediately after the quest "The Eternal Battle", and assumes Iorveth's path and not having let the mob go after Prince Stennis.

Geralt shook and stumbled as the third spirit left him. Reliving the battle, ghost by ghost, had been like fighting in a dream. Each time he had felt as though he was simultaneously the soldier, striving to complete his task, and also as though he was watching the soldier, urging him on by pure force of will. When he came back to himself he felt drained, exhausted, but the pain of the blows he’d sustained dissipated in an instant, and his wounds disappeared.

Another vision, this one of Henselt and Sabrina Glevissig. The damn fool. What did he expect from a sorceress? She had been right: battles are won or lost by the commanders. She had done what she thought necessary – and she had paid with her life.

The vision faded – or rather, part of it did. The image of Henselt wavered and vanished, but that of the sorceress seemed to grow brighter. And then Sabrina Glevissig’s head turned toward him, and she looked him in the eye. “Geralt of Rivia.”

That Geralt didn’t remember having met her before meant nothing at all. His memories were slowly returning, but they were still far from complete. Strange, though, that other than the wraiths of the dead knights he’d fought in the mist, she was the first of the ghosts who had appeared to see him for who he was. The visions had played in front of his eyes in mists and shadows like a puppet play, and when each spirit in turn had possessed him, he was aware of that dual nature. But Sabrina was looking at him, at Geralt of Rivia. And it looked as though she wanted something.

“I hope you’re not upset that I lifted your curse,” he finally said.

She laughed. “I hope _you’re_ not upset that you lifted it.”

“What do you mean?”

“With the battlefield cleared of the spectral mist, King Henselt will storm Vergen. Saskia the Dragonslayer is an inspiration to Aedirn, but she cannot hope to prevail against Henselt’s numbers.”

“I should get back there, then, and lend my assistance. Unless you plan to stop me.”

“No, witcher. I plan to aid you. Or rather, I would like your aid. I want you to help me stop King Henselt.”

“I imagine he won't be surprised that you've turned on him, considering how proud sorceresses are of their neutrality. Though I would think being Kaedweni might have tipped the scales.” 

“Henselt had me burned at the stake. Funny how that changes one’s loyalties.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Witchers are also notoriously apolitical. Are you actually taking sides in this conflict?”

He had to think for a moment before answering. His first impulse was to say he was just chasing Letho – Foltest’s assassin, and Demavend’s too, according to Iorveth – to clear his own name, but that wasn’t the full truth any more. Maybe it had started out that way. But although he didn’t idolize Saskia the way Iorveth did, he was impressed by the way she gathered followers. She seemed earnest in her desire to champion the rights of non-humans, and more importantly, she inspired both humans and non-humans to common cause.

He had come to a working detente with Iorveth; they respected each other, even if they weren’t friends. Zoltan _was_ a friend, and he’d made his allegiances clear. And for himself….

He shrugged. “I sympathize with the plight of non-humans. Especially since as a witcher, I’m usually lumped in with them.”

Sabrina’s smile was wintry. “Then you will help me kill the king?”

“They’re already calling me a kingslayer,” Geralt said. “Might as well earn it.”

The sorceress smiled, and stepped up to him – and _into_ him. There was a moment of disorientation, as there had been with the ghosts of the soldiers, but then he was himself again. No, not quite himself. Sabrina was there, looking out of his eyes, and the slight smile that came to his face was her doing, not his. 

He crossed the battlefield to the ravine next to the Kaedweni camp; or rather, he felt himself moving, propelled by Sabrina’s will. It was a different sensation than that of the dream-fighting, and he supposed the difference was that then, he was fighting other ghosts over spirit-banners and long-gone fortifications, rather than moving through real space and time. At the palisade, Sabrina briefly hesitated, then moved toward the same path Geralt had used to get into the camp a few days before, when he’d snuck into Henselt’s tent to get his blood for Saskia’s cure. _I see it in your memories, witcher. A shame you didn’t just kill him then and save us_ _both_ _the trouble_.

The camp was much more active than it had been then. Men scurried about, bringing arms and armor to the knights they served. The cook ladled out stew to a long line of hungry soldiers. From the direction of the parade ground came the sound of footsteps marching in formation, punctuated with gruff shouts from Kaedweni sergeants.

They crept quietly along the edge of the bluff, behind the tents, until they were next to the king’s tent. As before, guardsmen kept watch in front of the door. On that previous visit, Geralt had crept around the back of the tent and knocked over some barrels. _I don’t think they’re going to be as easily distracted this time._

Sabrina’s ghost stepped out of him then, and he had another small jolt of dislocation as he realized that he was back in control. She turned to face him. “Leave that to me.”

Geralt watched as she walked toward the guards and then faded from view. The nearer guardsman stiffened, then walked directly into the other, knocking him back. 

“Hey!” said the second, in tones of outrage. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The first didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “Wanker.”

“What?”

Geralt stifled a laugh. He could only see the man’s profile, but his face was set in an uncomfortable grimace. The poor man must be horrified and confused as to what was happening to him.

“I never liked you.”

“Don’t have to like me. Just have to guard the king, eh?”

“’S boring as fuck.”

The other man shrugged. “Don’t matter if it is.” Then his gaze narrowed. “Wait a minute. Have you been drinking?”

The possessed guard’s mouth stretched into a rictus grin. “And what if I have?”

“Then I’d wonder why you haven’t offered me any.”

“’Cause I don’t like you.”

“Figures. Luckily I’ve got some of my own.” The guard tapped his pocket, then reached into it and pulled out a flask. As he began to unscrew the cap, the possessed guard lunged forward, knocking it out of the other man’s hands and onto the ground beyond. 

“You son of a bitch!” cried the guard, diving for the flask, and the other jumped at him as well. That left the front of the tent unguarded, and Gerald reckoned that was his cue.

King Henselt was not alone. An attendant was with him, helping him into his armor, and both of them looked toward the entry as Geralt slipped in.

“Sire!” gasped the attendant. He stumbled toward the back of the tent, still holding the king’s helmet. Geralt hoped he wouldn’t have to kill him.

Henselt frowned at Geralt. “Not my blood again, I hope.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What’s that?”

Geralt sensed a ghostly presence beside him; Sabrina must have glided in. The attendant kept his frightened eyes fixed on Geralt, but the king’s eyes slid sideways and widened in horror.

“She’s dead! She can’t be here, can she?”

The attendant dropped the helmet, which hit the ground with a loud _clang_. “Wh-who can’t be here, Your Majesty?”

“I had you burned at the stake,” said Henselt slowly. “You are a figment of my imagination.”

“She cursed the battlefield,” said Geralt. “That was what caused the mist of wraiths.”

Henselt turned to him and scowled. “I know that. Also I know that the curse has been lifted. My men said they saw...well, strange things. But they saw you, also. Do I have you to thank, witcher?”

“I did lift the curse, yes.”

“Yes,” repeated Henselt. “And my men are now preparing to destroy Vergen. Well done, Geralt of Rivia.” He brought his hands together and clapped three times, slowly. “Well done.”

Beside him, Geralt heard Sabrina’s ghost hiss. “Kill him.”

Geralt shot a glance toward the terrified attendant. “I said I’d _help_.”

“Fine.” She melted toward him, and there was that strange feeling of disconnect for a moment; and then he was unsheathing his sword.

Sabrina didn’t know how to use a sword, but it didn’t matter. His own reflexes took over, which was a good thing, because Henselt’s sword belt had already been fastened over his armor, and he had immediately drawn his sword and met Geralt’s swing with his own. The attendant screamed, and the two guardsmen who had been outside the tent rushed in.

Geralt spun and brought the flat of his blade down on Henselt’s unprotected head, causing him to crumple to the ground. Then he turned to face the guardsmen. They looked vaguely guilty, and smelled vaguely of whiskey, and as they lunged for Geralt they stumbled slightly, their sloppy footwork leaving them open for his ripostes. It took only a few blows to leave them both dead. _Well done, sorceress._

Henselt, though, was not so easily dealt with. His attendant had helped him back to his feet, and he glared at Geralt as he raised his sword again. “Bold of you, to come back to my camp. What do you want now?”

“What do you think?” He wasn’t sure if the words had come from him or from Sabrina, but Henselt nodded. 

“She is taking her revenge, I see. A pity. She was an excellent advisor, as far as that went.” His lip curled, and he let out a sigh. “But you know sorceresses. They put themselves above the rest of us. She thought she knew better than –” 

Geralt felt his muscles tense, and his sword arm move. _Let me_ , he thought, and just like that, his control was restored. He let his strength surge into the swing, and dropped his hips just enough to give his body the balance it needed to guide his aim. 

The attendant let out a yelp as Henselt’s head, neatly severed from his body by Geralt’s careful stroke, flew into his chest and knocked him over. 

“Well done, witcher,” said Sabrina. She’d stepped out of his body again, and stood over Henselt’s headless body. The edges of her mouth curved in the tiniest of smiles.

“Only half done,” said Geralt. “A lot of Kaedweni soldiers between here and Vergen. Can you get me back?”

“I’m sure you can manage.” She shrugged carelessly. “The camp’s terribly noisy tonight, with all the battle preparations. Surely a witcher of your abilities can sneak out as quietly as he sneaked in.”

“But I –”

“Thank you, Geralt,” said Sabrina. “And farewell.” She was already beginning to fade from view as she stepped toward the entrance flap of the tent, and as she passed through the doorway she disappeared entirely.

“Great,” muttered Geralt. The attendant on the floor whimpered, and Geralt looked over to him. He was clutching Henselt’s head as though it were a bloody talisman. “You didn’t see anything,” he said, reinforcing his words with Axii.

“Didn’t see,” said the attendant to Henselt’s head. He shook his own head, then carefully lowered the lids over the staring dead eyes. “Didn’t see.”

Geralt stepped over the bodies of the guardsmen and peered out cautiously. Sabrina, damn her, had been right; nobody was looking in his direction. He slipped out of the tent and made his way back along the edge of the bluff, behind the row of tents, and back toward the battlefield. He wondered what would happen when the army discovered that their king had been murdered. Hopefully he’d be back in Vergen by then.

Phillipa would know. She wouldn’t be pleased, he suspected, but she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Iorveth, on the other hand, _would_ be pleased. He’d have to make it quite clear to the elf that this had been a special case. Geralt had no intention of becoming another Letho.


End file.
